The woman who teaches costume class at the local high school went to Spain. Which is where my youngest daughter lives. Since I used to have her job she asked me to fill in for her while she was sipping Sangria. She did not have to ask twice. 

The class is small, and the students are newbies to the world of patterns and fabric. Being their shepherd was more than a job. It was a pleasure. They made progress on each of their chosen projects, mindfully matching their fabric pieces to the pictures on the instruction sheet. Part of me wanted to reassure them that I could explain it all, but really it serves them to understand how directions play out. It is always a balancing act to know whether to point out potential problems, like the direction of the pins. This changes, by the way. When cutting a pattern piece they should be parallel to the edge. When you sew them on the machine they need to be perpendicular. But how many times can I say that without being a nag? I was after all only a stand in for the real instructor. 

One student was methodically trying to rethread the needle. I had casually mentioned that if she leaves a tail about the length of her finger it will not come unthreaded, but she had her own way of doing it. I watched, or rather tried not to watch while she spent five minutes licking and snipping the thread, trying to coax it through the hole. Finally I offered to help. She exhaled. 

"Yes, thank you."

When she was contentedly humming along again, I realized that her hands were on the far side of the needle. As in, where the seam already happened. 

"You have more control if you hold the fabric in front of the needle, instead of behind it. The machine will do the pulling, with those little teeth. But it works better if you steer." 

She humored me for about thirty seconds, and then went back to the way she liked. 

I considered this. I am a sojourner in her class, and as such can only push so far. I kept my mouth shut. 

A friend often reminds me not to live in the past. I have no power there, he tells me. I can tug, or pull, but really the stitches are already in place. Keeping my eyes on the needle, the one currently bobbing up and down is a better use of my time. 

I decided to remember this moment, the next time my brain tugs me back to a place of powerlessness. Like the mistake I made last April.